


Melancholia

by wilyasha



Series: Firewall [10]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Culture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Codependency, Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilyasha/pseuds/wilyasha
Summary: Keith's mother and uncle were once siblings that weren't always at war with one another, but Lotor was always watching. He was always aware of what his family kept from him.





	Melancholia

**Author's Note:**

> This entire series really diverges from the canon timeline and ventures into AU territory. This interlude story in particular takes place during Lotor's childhood.
> 
> Content Warnings: This fic, and this series in its entirety, features a main original character with a heavy emphasis on canon divergence. Although there are major character deaths, it is two characters that have already been established in canon to have died and been resurrected (so I chose not to use the archive warnings). There is also family dysfunction and issues between parents and children. I have also made Lotor, and his sister, very mentally and emotionally precocious children. I didn't tag for it, but there may be mild undertones of child abuse (i.e. shouting, neglect). I also didn't tag for Haggar/Zarkon, just because the focus wasn't really on their relationship or marriage and more about how brittle it was at the end (as well as the fact that it doesn't have a huge prevalence in this interlude fic.)

Childish laughter echoes down the corridor. Honerva’s hands grip tightly on to the edge of her worktable. The flickering purple lights of the holographic monitor glitter across her face. She grits her teeth, gaze flickering to the side as if the children will appear right beside her. They shouldn’t be back yet, but time has never been on her side. Smoothing back her pale blue hair, she uncoils and recoils her chignon. Honerva makes herself presentable and swivels around just in time for the sliding doors of her laboratory to _swoosh_ to the side and unveil a little girl no more than eight years old. 

“Mama, Mama,” the child giggles, rushing over to her on coltish legs.

“My little blossom,” Honerva coos, squatting down to receive the girl barreling down on her. Honerva catches her first born, lifting her up in the air to kiss her chubby cheeks. 

“Mama, I missed you,” the girl giggles again. “You should have come with us!”

“I wish I could, Larka, but I had so much work to do,” Honerva explains softly.

Larka sighs, throwing her head against Honerva’s shoulder rather dramatically. “I know. I know.”

Honerva feels a brief pang of guilt in her chest, but she pushes it down. She ignores whatever emotion the guilt is trying to provoke. 

“How was your trip? Did you have fun?”

Larka nods, enthusiasm coming back like a tidal wave. “Papa was in meetings with Uncle Alfor, so I spent time with Aunt Amue and Allura. And then we went to Aunt Fala’s summer house for the weekend. I went swimming!”

“Swimming?” Honerva asks. Her younger sister’s summer house is always buzzing with diplomats wanting to see the ethereal vacation spot. The cool, clear, green waters of the eastern shoreline and the warm beaches of pink sand. “Did you take your brother?”

“Of course, I did!” Larka answers, almost as if she’s hurt by Honerva’s question. But Honerva knows what it’s like to have a younger sibling that follows the elder, always in their business and wandering into situations they shouldn’t be in. Fala used to do that to Honerva when they were children, until Honerva convinced her to target their elder brother. 

“Hmm… and where is Lotor now?” she asks.

“Papa took him to the nursery,” Larka yawns, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder again. “He was tired.”

Honerva smiles, “You look tired too, little blossom.”

Larka rolls her eyes. “No, I want to stay awake. I want to stay awake and play with you and Kova!”

The stab of guilt is back, tangling around her heart like thorny vines. “Larka… Kova isn’t feeling well.”

Larka’s dark brows furrow. “What? Does he have a tummy ache?”

Honerva licks her lips nervously. “Not exactly. Why don’t we go find your father? After Lotor is up from his nap, we can play a game?”

Her daughter’s face brightens once more and Honerva wonders how long that can last.

\--

“Do you like him?” 

“No, he’s gross.”

Lotor giggles around a mouthful of sweet cream and glazed pastries. 

“Don’t do that or you’ll choke,” Honerva says bitterly.

Her family turns to her, but she ignores them. She stabs a square piece of fruit dripping in juice and shoves it in her mouth, chewing viciously. 

“Well, Larka why don’t you like him?” Zarkon counters, attempting to defuse the tension. 

Larka nervously eyes her mother before watching as tears well up in Lotor’s eyes. She reaches under the table and squeezes the little boy’s thigh in reassurance.

“He’s tall and he’s mean,” Larka says as if that explains everything. “He’s needs a lesson in manners.”

Her children are now twelve and five and Honerva barely wonders where the time has gone. 

“I’ve been training him myself, Larka,” Zarkon explains. “Perhaps you’re being too hard on him?”

“You should teach him manners, Papa,” Larka remarks. “He’s rude and when I tell him to leave me alone, he insists on sitting beside me. I just want to be left alone.”

Honerva glances across the table. Larka is so much like her. She’d rather busy herself with her studies than play with friends. The only companion the girl has is her brother and cousin, and even with those friendships Larka would rather observe or wander outside writing annotations in her field notebook. The last thing the alchemist wants for her daughter is for the young girl to become someone as aloof as Honerva.

“You should be open to more people, Larka,” Honerva says, her tone soft. “If you want to rule Daibazaal one day, you need to learn that there will be people you will disagree with, but you mustn’t let that stop you from making alliances.”

She should heed her own advice.

The table is quiet, even as Lotor shovels in a second helping of sweet cream. 

“I don’t love him though,” Larka says. “You and father married because you love each other. Why can’t I have that?”

“You don’t have that luxury,” Honerva says, turning back to her syrupy fruit that is suddenly too tart for her taste.

“Why not?”

Honerva grits her teeth. Why must this child fight her at every opportunity? 

“You are the princess of Daibazaal, the heir apparent. You will marry who your father and I say you will marry.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Times are different now.”

“You can’t make—”

“Silence, Larka,” Honerva hisses. “Just for one moment, be quiet and listen.” Honerva stands, pushing herself away from the table so hard that the chair crashes to the floor as she stands. “I just need silence for once!” She turns to leave, disappearing through the entrance and down the corridor.

Larka’s chin wobbles as Zarkon stands as well. He walks behind his children, puts a soothing hand on each of their heads, stroking back their hair. 

“It will be alright. Your mother is just overworking herself. Her research results have been difficult to obtain in recent quintants, but she’ll calm down once she makes this breakthrough. Be patient with her.”

Larka shrugs off her father’s hand. 

“I don’t want to marry Sendak, Papa. Please!”

“We’ll talk about this later, Larka,” he says, pulling away to follow his wife.

Larka curls in on herself, chest heaving. She feels Lotor put his small hand on her thigh and squeeze. 

“Are you okay, sis?” Lotor asks.

She shakes her head.

“Do you want some of my dessert?” He asks, cocking his head to the side. 

She shakes her head again.

“What _do_ you want?” he asks.

She shrugs.

“Well, _I_ want Mama to stop yelling and I want Kova to get better,” Lotor says, grinning ear to ear.

Larka looks over at Lotor. A large flake of pastry crust is stuck to the corner of his mouth and some sugary custard has made his chin tacky. She grabs her napkin from her lap and scoots closer to clean his face off, all while he tries to take another spoonful of cream. 

\--

On the quintants that lead up to Honerva’s biggest breakthrough, she becomes softer. Her yelling and bitterness has dissipated. It’s clear to her children that their father had spoken with her. On one warm quintant in the city of Drule, she observes her daughter having a courtship luncheon with the young cadet. Her eyes narrow as the boy gets too close to Larka. He invades her personal space, loops a curl of dark purple hair around his clawed finger and yanks. Larka flinches, gritting her teeth as the boy smiles at her. 

Larka is correct. That northern boy has no manners.

“Little blossom,” Honerva calls out as she comes into view. 

Larka looks up and at her mother. Her eyes widen for only a tick. She whispers something to Sendak before heading over to Honerva. A childish skip in her step.

“Yes, Mama?” she questions as they walk around a corner together. Finally, when they are alone and out of earshot of any servants or northern boys, Honerva grips Larka’s arm before embracing her. Honerva notices that Larka has grown. She still is the lanky girl of her youth, but her once-awkward movements have smoothed out. She will grow into her height like any young Galra girl, graceful and deadly. She’ll be taller than Honerva one day. 

“Are you alright?” Honerva asks, combing her hand though Larka’s loose hair. 

Larka’s brows furrow together. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her daughter’s words leave a dry, sour taste in Honerva’s mouth, filling the pit of her stomach with more acid than it can handle. She feels it in her bones: her child has resigned herself to her fate. Perhaps she was too hard, too rigid, like her own mother. 

Honerva attempts to guide her down the hall, but Larka doesn’t move. She is rooted to the spot. “Sendak is taking me to the fountain square. I told him I’d only be a moment.” 

She feels it, the separation beginning. Her child… her flesh is peeling away from her like a hardened scab. The child is nearly thirteen, two deca-phoebs from adulthood by Galra standards, and she’s already pulling away. Honerva knows she’s pushed her. 

She watches as Larka scuttles back to the courtyard where the young cadet once again curls a piece of hair around his finger and yanks. Larka’s smile hardens.

A few vargas later she scoops Lotor up after his afternoon tutor session. He giggles and clutches at his mother’s leg until the woman lifts him in her arms pressing kisses to his face. At least one of her children has not abandoned her.

\--

“I don’t understand why I can’t see her,” Lotor pouts, scrubbing his face clean while carefully keeping the soap from his eyes.

Larka stands against the doorway, arms folded over her chest.

“It’s not safe in the laboratory, brother,” she says, lips pursed. “Especially in Mother’s personal workplace. I told you that. You’re lucky I caught you in time.”

Lotor grumbles, scrubbing more viciously at the spot of dirt that won’t leave his cheek. “Why won’t it come off?”

“The liquid stains,” she says, matter-of-factly. “It’s used during surgical procedures. It will take a while for it to rub away.”

“How am I going to hide this? She’s going to be so—”

“You should have thought about that before snooping around,” Larka hisses. 

“It was an accident,” Lotor whines and she sees tears in his eyes, his chin wobbling.

Larka sighs, squatting down to examine his cheek before looking him in his eyes. “Listen, I know it was an accident, but you have to be more careful.”

“I was looking for Kova.” More whining. 

“I know, Lotor, but you have to be careful. Mother has highly dangerous elements, all sorts of chemicals, in there. She wouldn’t want you getting hurt, right?” Larka forces a smile on her face. 

Her brother doesn’t notice, or pretends not to. They both know how volatile Honerva has been in the past few years. She’s grown as aloof as her cat. Honerva is more likely to hiss at someone than actually speak. 

“I guess,” Lotor looks down before shifting his gaze back up. “How come you get to spend time in there with her?”

Larka looks like she wants to say more. She wants to confide in her brother. _To protect you. Please just listen to me._

“Because I can cause mischief without getting caught,” she giggles, tickling at Lotor’s sides. “Unlike you.”

Lotor lets out a shriek of laughter before squirming away. “Stop, Larka!” He giggles, despite his embarrassment. He’s too old to be tickled by his sister.

Larka pulls away, smiling. “I’ll have servants bring up your dinner so you don’t have to show that evidence on your face. I’ll tell Father you’re tired from training today.”

Lotor nods. “Thanks, sis.”

She smiles again, standing and threading her fingers through his long white hair. “Tomorrow we can go swimming at the lake. Does that sound fair?”

“Will Sendak come?” Lotor asks, eyes shining.

“He’s not someone who likes swimming,” Larka starts, “but I may be able to convince him.”

Lotor pumps his fist in excitement. His sister shakes her head in mild amusement, before turning around. She leaves just in time to miss the smile sliding from Lotor’s face. He chuffs in derision. Gritting his teeth, Lotor scowls at his reflection in the mirror.

\--

“Have you spoken to Mother?” Larka asks as she spears a piece of roast with her fork. 

“Larka, not now.” 

“It’s urgent, Father. I have to speak with her and she won’t take any of my messages.” Larka’s grip on her utensil is tight and overly stilted. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have called Alfor to come hinder your mother’s experiments,” Zarkon says tersely. “You and I both know well that what she is doing is for our future, for Daibazaal’s future. You betrayed her and she’s upset. Let her work through those emotions. She’ll call upon you when she’s ready.”

Larka slams the utensil down on the table, some food flinging to her right. “She isn’t upset, Father,” Larka says from behind clenched teeth. “She’s sick. She needs to see a doctor. If I can take her to Altea and see a physician there, away from the rift, away from the quin—”

“Do you ever know when to stand down, Larka?” Zarkon interrupts, messaging his helmless head. Another headache beginning to blot the corners of his mind.

“I called Uncle because Mother is sick. She needs help. I’m tired of keeping this from Lotor, I keep lying to him. He’ll find out eventually.”

“Then don’t lie to him,” Zarkon says, stabbing his food with his own fork. “You keep coddling him. He’s not a cub anymore. And if you keep pushing this discussion with me, he’ll be the one who is my heir and not you!”

Larka reels back as if slapped. Her jaw sits tense as she stares down at her plate. 

“If you wish to get back in your mother’s good graces, you must give her time,” Zarkon says, voice a bit softer now. 

Before Larka can say another word, the room begins to tremor, the dishes clatter just as the goblets fall, spilling wine across the table. The servants sputter about outside the room. 

“Just stay calm,” Zarkon says. “It will pass.”

Another tremor shakes the room and Larka clenches her hands on the edge of the table. “I thought the stabilizers were supposed to be working?”

“They are,” her father remarks tersely. 

The tremors continue for another few doboshes. Larka closes her eyes tightly but is acutely aware of her father’s calloused palm pressed against her hand. As if that will keep her calm. When the tremors are over, she stands abruptly.

“Will Daibazaal fall in your quest for this unlimited power Mother so desperately yearns for?” she asks aloud as she leaves the dining hall.

Zarkon lets her go.

\--

Larka watches Honerva from the edge of the room. Her mother lays twitching in bed, muttering and whimpering. She squirms like an emaciated serpent. The princess grits her teeth. She should have taken Lotor and left a long time ago. Before the situation escalated this badly. Even if her mother recovers, there is no doubt in Larka’s mind that the woman will go right back to testing the quintessence. She grips the bowl in her hands and slowly approaches the bed. 

“Mother, Mother,” Larka says, slowly sitting on the edge of the bed. Kova watches her warily from his perch on Zarkon’s pillow. His tail flicks lazily as she plucks the cloth from the water, wrings it out and wipes down Honerva’s face. “You look tired, Mother. You’ve aged.”

Honerva is unresponsive. Her body only shakes with its own earthquakes. She’s sweating with fever and her skin is blotchy. Her once pale blue hair is limp and white. Handling the quintessence has left her traumatized and corrupted, though she does not know it. Larka dunks the cloth in the bowl, wrings it out and wipes down Honerva’s arms. She is so frail.

“I’m leaving with Lotor. We’ll stay with Aunt Fala until that rift is closed up,” she murmurs.

The doors slide open revealing a tall sentry. “The ship is ready, Princess Larka.”

“And my brother?”

“He has boarded with Emperor Zarkon,” the sentry remarks, stilted. 

“Why?” she asks, gripping the bowl tightly. 

“I believe he has a summit with the other paladins of Voltron on Altea.”

Larka narrows her eyes, staring down at her mother’s twitching form. 

“Very well,” she answers. “I’ll only be a moment.” She gestures for the sentry to take the bowl. He acquires it and quickly leaves. 

Larka presses a kiss to her mother’s shivering forehead, grimacing at the sweaty film already clinging to her moist, paper-thin skin. 

“Once Lotor is settled, I’ll return with a physician, Mother,” she presses her forehead to Honerva’s. “I promise.” 

\--

After the funeral, Lotor is the one who visits their bodies in the dark hall far away from those who mourn. He doesn’t want to see the shriveled remains of his mother tucked beneath the first funerary shroud. Instead, he peels back the other dark sheet from his father’s face. The visage lacks all familiarity. Zarkon’s skin is worn and craggy, so different from the smooth paneled hide Lotor is accustomed to. 

He’s tall enough now that he doesn’t need to climb onto an elevated table, but he does struggle to wrap his hand around his father’s neck. It’s stiff and turgid with preservation. 

“Sister cries for you,” he murmurs, carnassial teeth clenched so hard that they dig into the sides of his tongue. “She mourns for what you both have done.”

He wants to punish them. He wishes their family could have been _enough_. 

“You’ve ruined everything,” he hisses. Lotor squeezes once before slowly pulling away. He should hurry back. He must be the shoulder his sister uses to cry on. It’s his shoulder that must be damp with her tears. Not her betrothed or their uncle. Him. He is the future of Daibazaal. He will protect what remains of his fractured family.

“Don’t worry, Father,” he chuffs, fists clenched at his sides. “I’ll be better. I’ll control the quintessence better than Mother was capable of. I’ll finish what you could not. Immortality for all of us who’ve had to watch the Emperor and Empress decay. But I’ll make sure you are forgotten.”

Lotor shifts the funerary shroud back over his Zarkon’s head. As he leaves, Lotor’s footsteps are just as heavy and burdened as his sire’s.

Thirty ticks later, when the hall is silent and cold, Haggar awakens.


End file.
